


i'll take yours too

by tootsonnewts



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Porn with a smattering of plot, and a heavy dose of lube-soaked bad jokes, fratboy! shiro, metalboy! keith, shiro is keith whipped, voltron is a bad garage metal band
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 06:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15213272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tootsonnewts/pseuds/tootsonnewts
Summary: “You should come to our show tonight. You’ve never been home for one. Matt knows where it is.”When Shiro spots Keith, he’s bent back on the ground with blood pouring from his nose. There’s a shitty guitar wailing in his hands, remnants of a screech still humming through the strings. Keith is screaming into nothing, the bar’s cheap can lights glistening off the blood drooling sluggishly down his chin. All around him churns a cacophony of instruments and flailing bandmates, heavy leather boots and piercings decorating their varied bodies.All Shiro can see is him.on a visit home from garrison university, shiro stops by his boyfriend's metal show.





	i'll take yours too

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astraldefender](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astraldefender/gifts).



> happy birthday, gg! i'm so glad i met you and that we're friends. you're so encouraging and badass, and i'm so grateful to know you!
> 
> i kinda veered off of the original prompt, but hey. that's how it be sometimes.  
> i hope you enjoy it!!!

_“You should come to our show tonight. You’ve never been home for one. Matt knows where it is.”_

When Shiro spots Keith, he’s bent back on the ground with blood pouring from his nose. There’s a shitty guitar wailing in his hands, remnants of a screech still humming through the strings. Keith is screaming into nothing, the bar’s cheap can lights glistening off the blood drooling sluggishly down his chin. All around him churns a cacophony of instruments and flailing bandmates, heavy leather boots and piercings decorating their varied bodies.

All Shiro can see is him.

He’s smaller than the rest, save for one. Tiny, really. His shoulders are narrow, his hips are thin, his nose and chin are slight and sharp. From where he’s folded on the floor, his t-shirt rucks up high on his stomach, showing off a view of carved abs and a smattering of coarse, curled hair. Shiro isn’t sure if his mouth wants to water or go dry, and for that, he curses his body’s autonomy and his weakness for boys that could kick his ass.

Keith sits up on his knees and reaches toward the drum kit with a messily sharpied _VOLTron_ to snatch up a bottle of water. He drinks deep in long, slow swigs, and when he’s finished, he tilts his head to spray a mess of it into the air. It’s disgusting. Shiro is instantly charmed.

A sharp elbow digs into his side, jostling him enough to break his concentration.

“He’s really something else,” Matt shouts, mirth curling around his words. “You’re late. He’ll be disappointed.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shiro retorts around a sip of the overpriced beer he bought on his way into the makeshift warehouse turned club, but the fire is missing from his words. A shout rings through the stage speakers, drawing his attention up to the band.

Shiro watches in amusement as Pidge swings her bass around her back and crouches down to the floor, eye level with Keith. They stare at each other for a moment until both their mouths twist conspiratorially. Keith wipes a hand down his bloody face and shoves it into Pidge’s hair. Jesus Christ.

“I’m not late, by the way,” Shiro says. “You told me the wrong time.”

“Did I?” Matt asks innocently. “I don’t recall that.”

Shiro grunts back noncommittally, eyes returning to the stage. Voltron writhes and seethes on the raised platform. Their music is shitty, honestly. Shiro’s never been one for metal, especially not bands formed in sophomore year in his best friend’s garage. Shiro would’ve thought that that they’d give up the ghost once they all hit college, but alas. Pidge ran into Keith and his torn jeans one day in intro micro and their dreams returned with a vengeance.

A few months after Keith joined the band, Shiro ran into him in Matt’s kitchen during a weekend visit home from Garrison U, and that was that. Keith had Shiro wrapped around his finger faster than light. Fortunately enough, the effect went both ways. Keith was brash and independent, but under Shiro’s hands, he was putty soft. Shiro’s unsure if he’ll ever stop feeling smug about his effect on the other boy.

“This one’s our last song, and one of my personal favorites,” Keith mumbles into the microphone. His voice is softer than most people tend to expect, gravelly with use and strain, but smoky and warm. “It’s called The Trooper.”

Voltron launches into their cover of the Iron Maiden classic with a fervor yet undisplayed. It’s a terrible cover. Hunk’s drumming is just off time, Lance’s guitar work is sloppy at best, Pidge is doing _something_ with her bass, but it isn’t playing, and Keith-

Keith is singing, sure, but more importantly, he’s staring. Directly at Shiro. His eyebrows knit together heavily across his forehead, eyes shining with mischief beneath them. Keith gestures with a shoulder and hastily dropped mic at Pidge, and she nods in acknowledgement. The band veers off into a rhythmic interlude to buy time, and Keith sways as he saunters off the stage and into the crowd on the dirty floor of the warehouse. He pushes through the throng of students trying to enjoy their Friday night away from studying, slipping lithely between dancers as he approaches the wobbly hightop where Shiro and Matt sip on their drinks.

Keith pulls up close in front of Shiro, smirking up at him from under sweat-matted bangs and long, soft lashes. Shiro’s heart rattles against his ribcage as Keith reaches out, raking fingertips down over the chest of his polo shirt, brushing delicately over the embroidery of his frat insignia. Remnants of his bloody nose still streak across his mouth and chin, coming further into Shiro’s focus as Keith pushes up on tip toes to bring them face-to-face.

“You’re late,” he purrs. Shiro swallows hard around a sudden lump in his throat. Keith’s eyes are bambi-huge and dark - almost violet - under the shitty neon lights of the club.

“Hi, baby,” Shiro answers smoothly, dropping a hand to Keith’s waist and squeezing gently. “I know.”

One of Keith’s eyebrows raises, his smile growing wider as it climbs. “Do you now?”

“Matt gave me the wrong time.”

“Really? And you don’t, I dunno, have a phone? You couldn’t call a guy and check?”

“Gotta keep the mystery alive.”

Keith throws his head back in laughter. It’s loud and raucous, his mouth stretched wide and nose scrunched up with the motion. He has a dimple on one cheek, deep enough for Shiro to press his finger in if he wanted. He finds himself wanting to. The interlude drones on in the background, fuzzy and muddled in his head.

“Maybe so,” Keith hums after settling down. He walks himself backward toward the edge of the crowd and the stage that waits for him.

“See you around, broseph,” he shouts over the noise. With a wink, he’s gone. Moments later, he reappears on the raised platform in the center of the room, scooping up his microphone. Seamlessly, the band picks the Maiden song back up to finish their set. Shiro watches attentively as Keith shouts and flails through the rest of the lyrics.

“Not to be that guy,” Matt starts up, startling Shiro out of his admiration, “but you two really need to get a room.”

“Matt, what the fuck?”

Matt laughs loud, his ugly snort tearing through Shiro’s skin and lodging deep into his brain. It’s the laugh he uses when he’s in on a joke nobody else is. It’s the laugh he loves to use when he’s making fun of Shiro.

“Dude, c’mon. You two were basically screwing right here on the floor. Everyone in a ten foot radius was blushing. If I were capable, I’d be ashamed to be near you.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shiro whispers with feeling. The music winds down from the front of the room and the overhead sound system cranks up high, pumping top forty hits into the atmosphere. The crowd on the dance floor rearranges itself and churns into action, jumping and shouting as they dance with sloshing cups and bottles. Matt pats Shiro gingerly on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry, buddy. It’s actually pretty adorable how gross you two are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shiro isn’t sure where Matt is going with this, but he’s not entirely convinced he’s going to like it.

“It means,” Matt answers with an eye roll, drawing out his syllables, “that the rest of us are jealous of your whole true love, soulmates, together until the end of the line, _I’ll never let go, Jack!_ thing. It’s too bad it gets to happen to such a loser, though.”

“He’s not a loser, you ass,” a new voice breaks in. Shiro looks down to where Pidge glares up at Matt. Her arms are crossed, her glasses pushed high on the bridge of her nose, and she sports an impressive heat blush. “He’s cooler than your nerd ass, anyway.”

“Who’s cooler than what now?” Lance asks, shuffling up and throwing an arm around Pidge’s shoulders. He hands her a beer and takes to sipping one of his own.

“Shiro is cooler than Matt.”

“Ehhh,” Lance hedges. “Debatable.”

“He’s cooler than you,” Pidge answers smoothly. Lance gasps loud in reply, clutching dramatically at his chest. She ignores him. “Where is he anyway? And Hunk?”

“Hunk went off to find Shay. I think she’s helping out tonight, but I wasn’t completely listening, so maybe she’s not? I dunno where Keith is, though.”

“I’m right here,” the boy in question says quietly, appearing between Lance and Matt. He posts up on the edge of the table across from Shiro, a fresh bottle of water clutched in his hand. His hair is still wet with sweat, but it’s pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, which is a problem for Shiro. Somehow, the ponytail works just as well on Keith as his wild, natural state. It’s vexing how attractive he is, and how much Shiro wants to tug on that ponytail until Keith’s neck goes taut with the strain. He wants to trail his lips over a thin, corded neck and sink his teeth into a delicate adam’s apple. He clutches the edge of the table until his knuckles go white. Matt doesn’t miss the action, eyes narrowing at Shiro. He pretends he doesn’t notice.

“Hey Lance,” Matt says casually, “didn’t you say you’d been wanting to dance all week?”

“Hell yeah, dude!”

“Don’t you think you should take my sweet baby sister out on the floor, then?”

Pidge snorts loud at Matt’s thin tactics, but allows herself to be led away into the pressing throng. Keith watches them go, fond amusement curling his mouth. Shiro watches Keith watching them. The shoddily strung patio lights and neon signs of the makeshift club pulse and swirl overhead, bathing Keith’s pale skin in an otherworldly glow, blinking between reds and purples and greens. The colors highlight the contours of his face and play along the mussed strands of his hair. Shiro traces the angle of his nose with his eyes and imagines running a finger down the slope of it.

Matt clears his throat loudly.

“Welp! I’m gonna go...somewhere else,” he announces smugly and wanders off, leaving Keith and Shiro alone at the table. Shiro watches him go from the corner of his eye. He calculates how long it would take for him to throw Keith over his shoulder and push through the people surrounding them.

“You know what I think?” Keith drawls into Shiro’s ear. Shiro has no idea when he appeared at his shoulder, but it’s suddenly unimportant when Keith’s hand snakes around the front of his hip, fingers dipping into the waistband of his basketball shorts.

“What do you think, baby?” Shiro asks, his own hand reaching to tuck into the back pocket of Keith’s torn up jeans.

“I think it’s time to get you out of this terrible fuckin’ outfit.”

Shiro laughs under his breath, tightening his grip on Keith. “You’ve had these jeans since you were fourteen.”

“And they still look better than your goddamn tall socks,” Keith quips, tugging Shiro toward the door.

“Play your cards right and you won’t have to look at them for long.”

They roll out into the cool night air. Keith ambles Shiro toward the beat up and stripped old minivan the band uses to haul their gear. He shoves him up against the sliding side door, fumbling around in his pocket to grab for the keys.

“Not to make myself sound like an asshole or anything, but I don’t really need to play any cards to get you outta those things.”

The door slides back on shaky hinges. Shiro doesn’t give it time enough to fully open before he tackles Keith inside to the floor. He carelessly slams the door closed behind himself and sets to work, tugging Keith’s ratty GWAR shirt off over his head and tossing it up into the front seat.

Shiro crouches low over Keith, running thick fingers across his smooth skin. He loves him most like this, purring and pliant and sweat stained under his touch. He’s at his purest form when Shiro gets him on his back. Shiro leans forward, tugging on Keith’s ponytail like he wanted so much to do earlier in the warehouse. Keith’s head snaps back willingly, baring a fragile throat for Shiro to attack with his mouth. Shiro grazes over a bobbing adam’s apple with sharp teeth, earning a pleased hum for his effort.

“You gonna sing for me baby?” he murmurs, licking a long stripe up Keith’s neck toward his ear. Shiro latches his teeth around the lobe, rolling it around in his bite. He slides a hand down Keith’s front, smoothly popping the button of his ancient Levi’s open.

Keith hisses and huffs, “I dunno. You gonna give me something to sing for?”

That does it. The fire sitting low in Shiro’s belly roars to life, fueled bright by the feelings Keith always manages to stir up in him. He sits up, tearing his own shirt over his head. Keith reaches out for him, tugging the smooth fabric of his shorts down his thighs, scraping the flesh with his nails as he goes. He leaves the shorts down around Shiro’s knees, cupping him through his briefs and pressing hard with his palm. Shiro’s legs shake, his oxygen supply abandoning him with a punched out breath. He folds forward, grabbing Keith’s wrists and pinning them over his head with one hand. With the other, he tugs Keith’s jeans off, throwing them over his shoulder.

Beneath him, Keith pants and squirms, fighting weakly against his iron grip. He could escape if he wanted, but they both know he doesn’t. Shiro runs his hand down the side of Keith’s face, tracing over his cheekbones and down the bridge of his nose past the pointed tip, tracing the smooth curve of his cupid’s bow and down along his jawline. Shiro rubs the pad of his thumb back and forth across Keith’s plush bottom lip, playing at the center seam of his mouth. Keith pants, his lips parting minutely. It’s enough for Shiro to slide his thumb right in, pushing past Keith’s teeth and pressing down on his tongue, pinning it in place. Keith’s eyes roll back in his head.

Shiro pulls his thumb back out with a pop, a string of hot saliva stretching thin between his hand and Keith’s mouth. He reaches down, tugging Keith’s boxers down his legs. Shiro takes a moment to just look at him. He’s pretty and proportional, every part of him creamy and inviting. Keith’s already hard and leaking beneath Shiro’s strong body, and it’s enough to make his head spin.

“You’re so gorgeous, baby,” Shiro mutters, wrapping a hand around Keith’s length. “You always look so good under me.”

He pumps his hand once, twice, ignoring Keith’s noise of complaint when he lets him go to bring his hand back to Keith’s mouth.

“Lick.”

Keith pokes his tongue out, prodding Shiro’s palm with his tongue like a kitten.

“Like you mean it, honey,” Shiro admonishes. Keith works up a wad of spit in his mouth, rolling it around smoothly as he washes Shiro’s palm with the flat of his tongue. Shiro’s hand is dripping wet when he pulls it back to stroke Keith slowly. “Where’s your stuff?”

“It’s - _ah!_ \- it’s in the console.”

“Good,” Shiro answers, letting Keith’s wrists go. “Get it for me.”

He keeps pumping Keith as he lets him root around in the console compartment for his lube. Keith makes a triumphant sound when his hand wraps around the half-empty bottle. He presents his prize, a smirk of triumph on his lips. Shiro returns the smirk, but refuses the bottle. Instead, he tightens his grip around Keith and increases his pace.

“You know what to do.”

Keith sighs and rolls his eyes, a play show of annoyance, but Shiro knows this is what he likes. Keith is an exhibitionist at heart, at least when it comes to Shiro. He loves to do whatever he can to gain Shiro’s attention and keep it focused on himself.

Keith drizzles more lube than is strictly necessary on his fingers and reaches down, down, down between his legs. Shiro’s hand goes slack around Keith’s length as he watches those delicate fingers trace the soft, pink rim he dreams about at night. He waits patiently as he watches Keith tease himself, dipping the barest hint of fingertips into the pucker until finally sinking one home. As he does, Shiro redoubles his efforts, tightening his palm and jerking Keith off in long, smooth motions.

Keith gasps out, dropping the bottle of lube and tossing his head back. Shiro leans down and kisses across his collarbone as he grabs for the liquid to slick up the hand jerking Keith. He worries the thin skin with his teeth, licking hot trails across the expanse as he goes. Keith wiggles and squirms under him, his arm working fervently as he plunges fingers in and out of himself, the van filling with the hot sound of the lube squelching around his motions.

Shiro licks a final stripe up from Keith’s chest to his neck to his mouth.

“How you doin’ down there, baby?”

Keith moans and arches his back, opening his mouth wide for Shiro’s swirling tongue.

“‘m a little emptier than I was going for, but” -Keith twists his wrist just so- “ _ahhh,_ I think I can manage.”

“Oh yeah?” Shiro asks lowly, flicking his hand on an upstroke. Keith trembles and whines with the motion. “I don’t hear you singing yet.”

Keith’s head snaps up, his eyes full of fire with Shiro’s challenge.

“Give. Me. A reason,” he grits out, adding another finger and fucking himself with abandon. Shiro growls and tugs his underwear down to his knees. He lets go of Keith, slapping his hand out of the way until he withdraws his messy fingers and lets Shiro manipulate him where he wants. Shiro tugs Keith’s ass back into his lap, his thin legs spread wide over his thighs, and positions himself at his swollen entrance.

“Fine,” he rumbles, and slides into Keith in one smooth thrust. Keith cries out, back arching high until just his shoulders touch the floor of the van. Shiro folds himself over Keith’s body, drawing out and ramming back in harshly. He wraps Keith’s legs around his waist and slams his hands down on either side of his head. He fucks into him hard, pointed thrusts shifting Keith harshly against the thin carpet of the floor. “How’s that reason coming along, babe?”

Keith hiccups around a moan, his chest heaving and splotchy red. Shiro shifts his position, searching with each new plunge until finally, “Oh holy shit, Shiro. Right there, holy _fuck._ ”

Shiro smirks down at Keith, at his eyes scrunched closed and his spit-glossy lips parted wide. He leans forward and kisses him deep, plunging his tongue inside his mouth, sweeping it sloppily along Keith’s teeth. Keith’s eyes snap open and suddenly, Shiro’s world is blurring as Keith shoves against him, tossing him down on his back on the floor.

“Gonna ride you.”

God, Shiro loves him so much.

Keith lifts himself up into position and drops down swiftly on Shiro’s dick, seating himself in little bounces that rock Shiro to his core. He leans forward, bracing his hands on Shiro’s chest, rolling his hips in smooth waves that threaten to carry Shiro away. It’s their favorite way to finish, always has been. Something about submitting to Keith just _does it_ for Shiro.

Keith’s tight walls flutter around Shiro’s dick, pressing and squeezing him just right while Keith chases his own pleasure. As Keith moves in his lap, Shiro reaches out to take his weeping cock in hand and jerk him off, hard and fast. He’s still slick from all the lube they used earlier, but it’s dried down a bit, giving just a touch of resistance. Keith cries out at the friction, sighing and babbling as he picks up his pace. Hot coils tighten low in Shiro’s gut, his imminent release surging forward like the crest of a wave.

Shiro reaches up with his free hand, tugging Keith down by his shoulder. It shifts their position just right, Keith riding him in long, deep strokes with his dick pinned between them, rubbing against their bellies. He throws himself back once, twice, a third time, and comes with a strangled cry against Shiro’s chest. His insides squeeze hot and tight around Shiro, snapping the coils in him. He grunts loud as he orgasms, coming hard inside Keith.

They collapse together, panting hard as their pulses even out and their heads clear. Keith peppers Shiro’s face with light kisses, his mess growing sticky between them.

“I’m glad you came tonight.”

“Heyyooo.”

“Fuck you.”

“I mean-”

“Goddammit, Shiro.”

Shiro chuckles and smoothes Keith’s hair back from his forehead.

“You gonna tell me what happened to your nose earlier?”

“I cracked it on my guitar.”

“Incredible.”

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to come see me over on [tumblr](http://tootsonnewts.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/_tootsonnewts)!


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